The bar was about to close.  Louis Calibri sat at the far end, facing the dirty, glass door of the entrance.  Louis, who preferred to be called Louie, had been sitting on the same stool for most of the night.  He had been drinking from the same foam-littered beer glass, mostly in little sips, that whole time.  He had taken his supper at the bar as he usually did.  The greasy food the bar served him over the years had led to most of his issues with his weight and high blood pressure.  At least that’s what his doctor told him the last time they met.

Louie stood at six-foot three (when he stood up straight) and he weighed over two-hundred eighty pounds (it varied from day to day.)  Much of his size was fat, but most of it was muscle; he liked to “keep in shape,” he often said to his few friends.  If they dared to laugh at that, he’d follow-up with, “Round is a shape.”  Then he’d grin his terrifying grin at his attempt at humor and everyone would hurry to agree with him.

Somewhere in his distant past, Louie had been hit in the face with something.  He never said, but it looked like it might have been a baseball bat, or an axe handle, or maybe the bumper of a car.  Regardless, his lips had been split and most of his front teeth had been broken off.  His lips healed with a gap between the halves, making him look like he had four lips instead of two.  He never had his teeth fixed, so when he opened his mouth, all you could see was the irregular, snaggled edges.  A vampire’s fangs would have been more attractive.  When he talked at all, the damage caused a whispery, whistling sound to accompany his words.  The effect was disconcerting.

“Last call,” the bartender shouted out to his few customers.

Louie pushed his glass toward the man and wagged his bushy eyebrows at him.  He whistled, “One for the road.”

The bartender grabbed Louie’s glass and walked back to the spigot that would send a stream of golden draft into the glass.  The door to the bar opened with the ringing of a bell that was mounted near the top.

The bartender looked over at the sound and shouted, “We’re closing!”

The small man in the doorway wore an overcoat and fedora.  Louie and the bartender recognized him instantly.  It was Mr. Wranski, Louie’s boss.

The bartender glanced over at Louie as if to ask if he still wanted that last beer.  Louie shook his head and stood from his barstool, making that poor contraption groan from the removal of his weight.

Mr. Wranski closed the door behind him and walked along the length of the bar to where Louie waited.  Without stopping, Wranski motioned toward one of the booths and Louie followed him.  They sat across from each other.  Wranski tossed his hat into the bench next to him and squinted over at Louie in the dimness of the bar’s lighting.

“I have a job for you, Louis,” Wranski said.

Louie perked up, the long night and bad food disappearing from his consciousness.  He nodded and said, “That’s good news for me, Mr. Wranski.”

Wranski looked down at the table and then back up into Louie’s face.  “I need to send a message to someone who thinks they can stiff me.”

“I understand,” Louie whistled.  “Who’s the fool?”

“A guy from Youngstown got in a bind and asked for my help.  I gave him forty-thousand and six-weeks to pay it back.  Now he’s telling me he can’t pay.”

“That ain’t right, Mr. Wranski.”

“No, it ain’t.  And if I don’t make an example of him, some of my other clients will get the idea that they can get away with doing the same thing.”  Wranski looked conflicted.  “I called him yesterday and tried to tell him that he had to pay-up.  The word on the street is that he’s planning to bail out and move to Florida.  You need to change his plans.”

Wranski slid a folded piece of paper over to Louie.  Louie took it, opened it and glanced at the information.  Looking back at the little man, Louie asked, “How strong a message do you want me to deliver?”

“Don’t kill him.  A dead man can’t pay-up.”  Wranski made a fist on the booth’s top, “Rough him up, and remind him that I’m watching and that Florida ain’t far away enough.  You can threaten his family, but don’t kill anyone, . . . yet.  Understand?”

Louie nodded, “Yes, Mr. Wranski.  I’ll head over there right away.”  Louie stood, grabbed the paper with the address and hurried out of the bar.

Mr. Wranski slid out of the booth and pulled on his hat.  “Good night,” he said to the relieved bartender as he passed.  The little bell on the door as it shut sounded happy that he was going.

Out on the street, Louie climbed into his car, a dirty, old, dark green Oldsmobile 88, and headed out of Cleveland on Interstate 480 eastbound.  He decided that taking US 422 down through Warren and into Youngstown would be nearly as fast as Interstate 80 and, since it wasn’t a toll road, wouldn’t leave as much evidence of his trip.  At two in the morning, there was almost no traffic, and if he kept his speed to just over the limit, he thought that the cops should leave him alone.  About two hours later he arrived in Youngstown.

Louie stopped at one of those all-night convenience stores for cheap gas and nasty coffee and to ask for directions.  He had a little trouble understanding the jibber-jabber of the foreigner that worked behind the counter, but eventually he found out where he needed to go.  He scribbled the directions onto Wranski’s paper.

Louie climbed back into his car and drove the eight miles or so to Gotshaw’s house.  The lights were on throughout the house, implying that they were still up.  “Probably packing,” Louie muttered.

Louie pulled into the driveway, parked behind a dented minivan, got out of his car and, after hitching up his belt, sauntered across the lawn still wet from condensing moisture of the morning’s dew.  He jumped onto the porch and walked to the front door.  Louie heard activity in the room on the other side of the door.  He quietly opened the screen door and tried the front door’s knob.  It was unlocked.  He pulled his gun from its shoulder holster, opened the door, and stepped inside, all in one quick motion.

His sudden appearance followed by the slam of the screen door behind him, startled everyone in the room.  Mr. Gotshaw jumped behind the presumed safety of a stack of boxes.  Mrs. Gotshaw let out a scream of surprise and then fainted, falling onto an open box.  A young girl had taken one look at him where he filled the doorway and bolted for the back door.  He just let her run.  He knew that she wouldn’t be a problem, at least for a little while.

Louie strode to the stack of boxes where Gotshaw cowered, brushed the top box off the pile and stared down at his quarry.  “You know why I’m here, don’t you?” Louie growled.  He was grinning at Gotshaw and savoring the terrified look on his face.  “Mr. Wranski needs his money.  He told me to beat it out of you if I had to.  He also told me to bring in your wife and kid as collateral if that’s what it took.”

Gotshaw had landed hard on the floor and was looking into that maw of a damaged mouth.  He had instinctively thrown his hands up to protect himself, but he couldn’t take his eyes from the monster’s teeth.  Like a bird confronted by a snake, he stared and then finally pled, “Please don’t hurt my family.  I’ll pay.  I’ll pay!”

Louie began to nod his head.  “Yes, you will.  One way or the other.”  Then he said, “I was to tell you that Florida ain’t far away enough.”

A shocked look of surprise crossed Gotshaw’s face as he realized that Wranski knew his plan.  He looked up at Louie and saw his outstretched hand.  He reached out, expecting to get help standing.  Instead, Louie just watched him as he then struggled to stand on his own.

Louie asked, “Well, where is it?”

Gotshaw dipped his head and then softly said, “I got most of it.  Thirty grand plus a little.  And I can get the rest by the end of next week.”

Louie said, “Get it.  Hurry up!”  He realized that the girl might have been able to rouse one of the neighbors and they would have probably called the cops.  He watched as Gotshaw pried open one of the boxes. 

Gotshaw reached into the box and pulled out a blue plastic folder held closed with an elastic band.  He snapped off the band and opened the folder, extracting a wad of cash.  He handed it to Louie.

Louie flipped through the cash and counted out thirty-one-thousand, five hundred dollars.  He nodded his head and looked over at Gotshaw.  “Only fifteen-thousand to go.”

Gotshaw started to complain, but Louie’s fist to his stomach stopped the protest with a ‘whooshing’ sound from his lungs and a grunt as he doubled over in pain.  As Gotshaw crumpled to the floor, Louie said, “Interest and carrying charges.  Shouldn’t have made me come out to collect.”

A little sound from behind him made him turn to see Mrs. Gotshaw returning to the land of the living.  He walked over to where she lay and said, “You’d better make your husband pay up by the end of the week, or I’ll have to come back for a little visit.  I might not be in such a good mood, if you catch my drift.”  He laughed at his humor, the sound making any who heard it cringe.

Louie turned and walked to the door.  “Don’t forget, Mr. and Mrs. Gotshaw.  You can’t get away from what you owe.”  With that, he went out the door and out to his car.  He climbed in, started it, backed out and calmly drove home.  He smiled and nodded to himself as he passed the two police cars when they flashed by in the other direction. The drive home was pleasantly uneventful.  He had done his job well and delivered the boss’s message.  He patted the two piles of money on the passenger’s seat, the big one for Mr. Wranski and the little one for him.  Louie smiled his dreadful smile as he turned on the radio and settled in for the ride.